Gadge Week: Day Three | Rebellion
She stood nervously at the entrance of the shop, biting her lip. Was she really going to do this? A tattoo? Of all things? She couldn't imagine what people would say when they found out— well, if they found out. Luckily, it was winter, and she liked wearing sweaters and cardigans, anyway, cold or not. No one would ever need to know she'd been here…
The door opened in front of her, and Madge startled.
"You lost, sweetheart?" The owner of the shop, Gale Hawthorne, cocked an eyebrow at her appraisingly. She knew who he was, had looked up his work the moment he set up shop right next door to her's— a flower store, owned and run by her aunt until she died. Childless, she left it to Madge, who, while she had something of a green thumb, preferred being around people, not flowers. She had wanted to be a doctor, a pediatrician.
Well, she told herself, there was still time. It might break her mother's heart if she sold out, but maybe it wouldn't have to come to that.
There was still time, she repeated to herself. Time to change, to grow. She didn't have to resign herself to this life— full of color and bloom, sure, literally, but outside of that, monotonous and monochrome. She had been broken up from a serious boyfriend for nearly a year now and had just heard he had started going out with someone else. It was fine; she was over him, in a way, but then she realized she felt too much the same. When they broke up, she had grieved, perhaps, but not long enough. She didn't do the things most girls did— cut her hair, do something drastic, have a lot of hot sex with strangers. She was a Good Girl. She ran her shop and made sure she didn't 'let herself go' (her mother's lovely words, not hers) and didn't get into any trouble. She watched sad movies and ate ice cream alone in her apartment. She didn't let anyone know she was hurting.
Well, she had been selfless for a long time, but now she wanted to do something for herself that was perhaps a bit reckless, a bit impulsive, but Madge was tired of doing what was expected of her. She wanted to do what felt right.
"Nope," she said with conviction, popping her 'p' resolutely. "I'm right where I want to be."
Gale tilted his head and looked at her appraisingly. "Is that so?" He said. "So Princess wants a tattoo, huh? Never thought I'd see the day."
Madge shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "There's a time for everything," she said, stepping in fully.
She and Gale Hawthorne had a bit of an odd relationship. He had come into her shop for the first time a few weeks after he opened up, frazzled. "It's my Ma's birthday," he said, with a lopsided smile that made her blink stupidly for a moment. "And with everything that's been going on, I forgot. Whip me up something good, please? Tasteful." He made a face. "No roses."
Madge continued to blink at him for a long moment, her blue eyes tracking his rolled up sleeves, at the ink that curved and traced its way around one arm, his left.
"Oh," he said, following her gaze. Then he held out his hand. "Gale Hawthorne. I own the new shop next door. D12 Ink? Are you May?"
Madge gave him a weak smile, but a strong shake. "May was my aunt," she said. "I'm her niece."
Gale paused at her past tense, then dipped his head in recognition.
Madge nodded back. Then cleared her throat. "I'll get that bouquet for you."
Madge put a lovely one together, then, when she handed it to him, noticed he got a flash of discomfort on his face. He gave her a tight smile. "How much?"
She took a deep breath, willing her cheeks not to flame. She had broken her own rule— never forget to ask the client their budget. The bouquet she put together would be fairly expensive, but she felt so badly she said, shaking her head, "No charge."
It was Gale's turn to blink at her. "No charge?" He echoed.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," she said finally, hoping it was a good enough excuse to distract from her own stupidity.
Gale's mouth twisted. "I don't need charity, you know," he said. "My shop is new, but that doesn't mean I'm broke."
Madge reeled back, as if slapped. "I don't—" she stammered, "I didn't mean—" It was her mistake not to ask him. But she was too startled, and a little bit hurt, to articulate it.
Gale scowled at her, throwing $50 on the table, grunting a reluctant, "Thanks," and marching out, bouquet in tow.
Madge avoided him, after that, feeling embarrassed and humiliated and hurt. He came to apologize the week after, citing stress and his own "bullshit" getting in the way. "It's not an excuse," he said, "I'm an asshole. I'm sorry."
She had smiled and told him to forget about it, but she remained skittish around him, despite his friendly overtures since then.
That had been over a year ago— he had eventually stopped being overly nice to her after his friendliness was inadvertently rebuffed, and now treated her with a polite coolness that almost hurt as much as his first rebuke.
Madge knew it was her fault, to a certain extent. She wasn't rude to him, ever, but she had no idea what his intentions were, and she felt uncomfortable at the thought that he was only being nice to her because he felt guilty. People were never nice just because, she thought, remembering all the times in school kids would be her friend just for the connections she had. It was mortifying, putting it mildly.
But today she was going to be brave. And despite the fact that there were dozens of other places she could've gone, Madge at least knew Gale. She could trust him with her body.
She flamed red at that thought as she felt Gale's presence behind her. not in that way! She was the kind of girl who would get a tattoo as a way of moving on from her ex-boyfriend, but not, to her friends' disappointment, the type to cut her hair (she liked it long, thank you very much) or hook up with random's (it didn't even matter how clear their skeevy intentions were— no, thanks.)
"So," Gale said as he pulled up a chair and instructed her to sit. He sat across from her, twisting the chair back so he could rest his forearms on it. "What'll it be?"
They were the only ones there. She closed her shop early— another irresponsible move— and sent everyone home. It was Friday, and no one questioned her, eager for an early weekend. She knew that Gale was by himself until the evening time, when another couple artists would come in, and someone to work the register. Weekends were busy for him, especially the nights.
Madge pulled a paper from her coat pocket and handed it to him.
"Interesting," Gale said when he unfolded it, and it wasn't sardonically, either. "I've never seen anything like this before. You draw this?"
Madge shook her head. Her friend Peeta was an excellent artist and had done it a while back, just a sketch, something mindless. Madge had always been drawn to it, ever since she had seen it hanging on his wall, and asked him if she could take it with her to the parlor. He told her just to have it.
It was an arrow, comprised of what looked like dots, but looking closer, they were all birds, tiny birds in flight. A few birds, out of alignment, lingered, a transition.
"Where do you want it?"
"I haven't decided," Madge said, "do you have any recommendations?"
"Well, that depends," Gale said, a bit startled at her asking his opinion. "How visible do you want it?"
Madge smiled, a bit self deprecatingly. "That's the problem," she said, "I'm still trying to decide that, too. My parents would throw a fit if they saw a tattoo, and I'm debating how much I care."
Gale laughed, surprised. "I wouldn't have expected this from you, Undersee," he said.
Madge smiled, a bit more genuinely than before. "Me either," she admitted.
"I think," Madge said, finally, "I want it up my side."
"Not very visible," Gale remarked.
"I guess," Madge said, "but I'm not doing this for them— or in response to them. I'm not a teenager. I'm doing this for me. I don't need everyone to see it. I just need to know it's there."
Gale nodded at her, looking with her like something with respect. "Let's get started," he said.
He looked at her for a moment. "Do you..?" He said, motioning to her clothes, then leaving to give her some privacy.
"Oh!" Madge turned a little pink. They were in the back of the store, so people passing by couldn't see her directly in the window, and Gale had a divider, anyway. She shrugged out of her coat and started to unzip her dress. Her bra was dark blue and strapless, less lines that needed to be moved out of the way. She wasn't planning on having the tattoo go very high, so she didn't think she'd have to remove her bra, but still, maybe getting it up her side was a bad idea…
Gale came back with his equipment, and she saw him flush when he took her in, but then he cleared his throat and a professional, detached look came in his eye.
Still, having his hands— large and dark and precise— on her wasn't deducing any professional feelings in either of him. Madge couldn't decide if it was a curse or a blessing that the feel of his hands was distracting her from the pain, and she tried not to let her breathing, slow and steady, speed up the way her pulse was.
For his part, his eyes were dark, especially when he took in the way her skin pebbled at every touch. It didn't do anything for his breathing, either.
In the beginning, he didn't touch her unless strictly necessary, but as time went on it was as though he couldn't help himself, his finger tips grazing her, almost a caress, and there was a hint of satisfaction about him when she shivered nearly every time.
"It'll be sensitive, a little red," he told her lowly as he finished, taking in the way the dark ink marked her fair skin, her blonde curls cascading as she gingerly sat up in nothing but her bra, her cheeks pink. He put in a new back drop in his mind, taking her away from the shop and putting her somewhere else— "but that's normal. Come back to me in a couple days and I'll check to make sure it's not infected. Keep the bandage on."
Madge nodded, zipping herself back up. "Okay," she said. "Thank you. It's beautiful work."
Gale shrugged, looking a little shy.
She looked down, fumbling with her purse and pulling out her wallet. "How much do I owe you?"
Gale cleared his throat. "No charge," he said.
Madge's head snapped up. "No," she said. Why was he doing this? "No way."
Gale blinked at her vehement response.
"If you won't let me do something nice for you," Madge said, flushing now in frustration rather than— something else, "then you certainly can't do this for me."
"Madge," Gale winced, holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine," he said. "You can pay."
Madge's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?" She said, sensing this wasn't all.
"You can pay…" Gale said, "for dinner."
Madge blinked. "Dinner?"
"Dinner," Gale confirmed, running his hand through his hair. "Listen, Madge— I like you. A lot. I know it hasn't seemed like it, since I was an ass and ruined everything and now you barely look at me. But I've liked you since that first day and I like you now, maybe more than ever. I want to get to know you better, if you— if you'd let me." He grinned at her ruefully. "I know I'm just some tatted up, scruffy peasant and you deserve better than the likes of me, but…"
Madge shook her head vehemently and Gale's face fell. "Don't say that," she said. "You're perfectly good enough." And maybe she wouldn't have believed his sweet words, but that was before the tattoo. She could feel it in the way he touched her, looked at her. Their relationship was nothing but a series of misunderstandings, but it seemed like they were finally on the same page. And she liked what she was reading. She knew he did, too.
"And I know a perfect place for dinner," she said, as his face lit up. "But aren't you working?"
"The benefits of being a shop owner," Gale said, as his brother, Rory, came in the door, ready to start his shift. Gale tossed him the keys. "Is that I can do what I want. And I just happen to have no scheduled appointments tonight. I'm all yours."
Madge smiled as he led her out the door, his fingers ever so lightly brushing her tattoo'd side.
